


Amarth - Rising

by Tobiramamara



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:02:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27595219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tobiramamara/pseuds/Tobiramamara
Summary: She is the daughter of the Elvenking. He is a revered balrog slayer, tainted by a growing Shadow. When they meet, values and histories collide. There is a Witch-king, and a Dark Lord. Can Glorfindel defeat that which is threatening to consume him? A story spanning across the events of the Third Age, from the Battle of Fornost to the Pelennor Fields.
Relationships: Glorfindel (Tolkien)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 9





	1. Fornost - Allies Old and New

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a collaborative effort with the awesome Ruiniel. This is how it goes: we both use the same outline of events, main canon characters, and OC. We follow the same plotline, but our stories will each have a different direction and, ultimately, ending. Just thought it would be a fun project to see where we each go with the same story. Be sure to follow that version too, if interested to join our ride! 
> 
> The twin story to this is: 'Amarth - Downfall' by Ruiniel.

Imladris, TA 1975, September 17th. 

The season of iavas was leaving the valley of Imladris, parting the trees and plants of its lessening warmth, leaving them with quivering leaves, reluctant to submit to the coming of firith or the fading as the Elves called it. Imladris lay hidden in the womb of its vale, protected by the invisible power of its prominent inhabitants, a stronghold within the growing darkness. 

The bell for the noon meal had rung hours ago. But Lord Glorfindel was reluctant to seek out the great halls of his home, for Imladris was preparing for the feast of Enderi, three days of music, banquets and rituals, marking the transition from iavas towards firith. The preparations had turned Imladris into an ant nest, too busy to collect one’s thoughts or digest food. 

So Lord Glorfindel kept to his rooms and was bent over his maps, wondering if Círdan was right to summon such a host for a seemingly impossible cause. A crystal glass filled with water stood on the Kingdom of Angmar, its foot deforming the letters, emphasizing its wretched name. He sighed, raking his hand through his golden hair, staring at the bloodred leaves of the climbing vines that lay on the window sills. Like drops of blood they reminded him of battles long past, the destruction of ancient cities, of homes and loved ones and then, like a magnetic pull he thought of the one battle that had cost him everything. 

He had lost his life there, on the cliffs of Cirith Thoronath, in turn taking that of his adversary. The image made him spiral into the abyss again, still fighting his foe in a deadly dance, its fire burning into his fëa. The memory took him over for an instant until he opened his eyes, gasping. With a shaking hand he took a sip of water. It had been Thorondor, Lord of the Eagles that retrieved his broken body and returned it to his people, those who were left of his House. A strange conception, that the shell of his former being lay resting somewhere in forgotten mountains, while its fëa was currently planning yet another war here at a table in Imladris. 

He sighed in defeat. Yet another war. And yet an all too familiar foe. It was no more than five centuries ago that Imladris was besieged by that same power, destroying life up until the very boundaries of the realm. The connection of his fëa to these lands had seemed young to him, being reborn into the Second Age. But it was deep enough to feel the ruining of his second home riving into his very being. The corruption that pervaded the land with all its living creatures. It had been unbearable. It was then that he tasted the power of the Witch-King for the first time. The attraction of another ring bearer made Elrond the target of his intent then. But Elrond endured his power and the invisible borders of Imladris were besieged but not breached. 

But evil was not vanquished then, merely wounded. The enemy retreated to the Northern lands, leaving death and destruction in his wake, the broken circle of stone on Amon Sul a grim reminder whenever he was on errantry. Elrond’s powers aided the healing of the lands surrounding the vale. And still he felt it. The remnants of evil, like a distant echo in earth and stone. Even the waters of the Bruinen remembered. They were scars that ran deep within the land. 

He was intent on forestalling a second coming of the power of Angmar, by all means and at all cost, even his own life. It was an unwavering intent. And for a moment he imagined the will of the Valar supporting his unuttered commitment silently, like sunlight warming his fëa from within. Then it left him, and he found himself staring at the map in front of him once again. 

Their chances were slim, no matter the size of Prince Eärnur’s army but the Alliance could still tip the balance. Rubbing his eyes he felt vexed with himself, it was not in his nature to feel thus discouraged. It would not do. Casting his eyes on the yellowish paper again, he rethought his tactics once more and wondered if this time, he was fated to meet the Witch-king in battle. His foresight could not compare to Elrond’s, but it seemed inevitable, for he was one of the few that could ride out openly against the Nine. 

A curt knock on the door disrupted his train of thought. It was a messenger, mud still caked on the hem of his mantle. “Lord Glorfindel. The Host of Eryn Galen under command of the Prince himself, is nearing Imladris.” 

Glorfindel’s heart leaped, surprise showing on his normally reserved features. Their scouts had noticed their approach some weeks ago, but the swiftness of their advance surprised him everytime new tidings arrived. They were expected well into autumn, but now it was clear that they would arrive before summer was well and truly over. 

It was significant that even the reclusive kingdom of Eryn Galen had heeded Círdan’s call for an Alliance of Men and Elves. For he knew of the growing evil infesting the forest that kept its inhabitants wary, slowly changing their nature. These events even started to change the name of the forest itself. For Mirkwood it was called by Men more and more, changing the perception of the forest also from the outside. But the coming of this host proved that despite the declining nature of the realm, its people still looked beyond their boundaries. Hope in unlikely places then. 

The evidence would be soon knocking on their doors, and still he could not wrap his mind around the strong willed son of Oropher setting aside his arrogance to aid this Alliance, but he felt grateful nonetheless. 

He slipped on a dark blue jack-of-plate with silver lining, an embroidery of a flower on his back. Over it he draped a large grey travelling cloak. Donning his boots while fastening his sword, he ordered the messenger to alert Elrond’s sons to accompany him. After all, a Prince should be met by nobility in turn. 

Xxxxxxxxxxxx

Dusk was near when the Imladris Guard reached the grassy plains that lay Northeast of the Imladris vale. Moisture in the air made the landscape hazy, toning down colours, the softness of it in stark contrast with the sharp coldness. Glorfindel stared into the distance. He could feel the host behind his line of vision, just as he could feel the young life of his steed underneath him. Elladan, clad in dark blue and black colors sat at ease on his horse, silvery grey eyes scanning the horizon. Where his mantle fell open, glimpses of silver mail shimmered next to the hilt of a well used sword. Elrohir sat, clad in his hooded mantle with his eyes closed, like a black shapeless form on his horse. Only the clasp of his mantle, shaped after a running wolf, reflected light.

“They linger just behind our field of vision. Let us wait a moment.”

Elladan and Elrohir nodded simultaneously, an almost comical sight for identical twins. But Glorfindel knew them to be as different from each other as the sun and the moon. It was merely a coincidence. 

Elladan said quietly, his voice sounding muffled by the moisture in the air. “They tread featherlight. I never heard such stealth. It is fortunate that Eryn Galen will join forces.” 

Glorfindel smiled wryly. “Do not cheer before the victory, mellon nîn. The headstrong character of their Silvan subjects, that I do not rejoice in. It caused the demise of King Oropher, the bitter result of arrogance and selfishness during the Battle of Dagorlad, among other things.” 

Elladan stared at him for a moment and shrugged. “That was a long time ago. Lessons might be learned from that tragedy. We have visited Eryn Galen and have seen much wisdom and skill among its people.”

Glorfindel nodded slowly. “Indeed, wisdom and great skill. And a great love for all things living. Still I cannot be but vigilant. Thranduil's selfish political and strategic machinations are not to be underestimated.”

Silence fell once more and they listened intently to the muffled sounds around them. And then birds ceased their chattering and the wind dropped while a vast mass of Silvan warrior elves seemed to topple over the horizon. The Imladris party waited silently for their approach. Glorfindel thought it to be at least 400 warriors, but they were hard to discern, even for Elven eyes, as they all dressed in the colors of the landscape, brown and green. Clothes made of sturdy leather, some metal here and there, impressive longbows, some swords, more knives. The attire of forest dwellers. Their faces fair, their long hair brown with streaks of chestnut or red, all caught in warrior braids. The lack of armour and longswords may fool the eye of the beholder in thinking them hunters not warriors. But appearances could be deceiving, Glorfindel knew. He had seen them fight. 

They marched on foot in eerie silence. On the right side of the group few elves herded a flock of deer, a few moose, and horses, their smell following the host in its tracks. No doubt they were held for food or scouting. In the front ranks one figure caught his eye. He was dressed as the others in green and brown, intricately decorated bracers on his arms, the sign of an archer. Despite his green and brown garments, he stood out, for he was slightly taller with silver blond hair and light blue eyes that seemed to reflect light despite the absence of the sun. 

Glorfindel’s sharp eyes focussed on the features of the prince and realised his mistake immediately. Raking his hand through his hair he sighed. He felt old all of a sudden. This was not Oropher’s son! Thranduil was King now, not Prince. He had sent his child to battle. 

Unwillingly his mind travelled to happier times. While on diplomatic visits he had taught Thranduil’s children on several occasions. Quenya and swordfighting if he remembered correctly. Legolas was the spitting image of his father, while his temper leaned towards that of his mother. This reminder of his passed beloved caused Thranduil visibly pain, although he hid it well. Morwen, his daughter, was named after her dark hair, a rare trait amongst the Silvan wood elves and even more rare within her family. She had her father’s temper and clashed with him more often than not. 

They had been delightful elflings. And his fëa flickered in sadness, to meet one of them here on the eve of battle. At least Morwen was spared a possible warrior's death on a distant battlefield. He remembered her radiant fëa, her tiny hands grasping his hair, her inquisitive questions. He cherished the moments she laughed uncontrollably at him, lying in the sunlight underneath the trees of Eryn Galen. Glorfindel took a deep breath. He had seen too many perish. 

The Eryn Galen Host moved as one. Their Prince, on approach, gave curt, silent orders to some of the Elves close by and Glorfindel could see the respect and obedience that was returned. And when he halted before them, the host, like a river flow, parted and walked ahead in silence. They could feel the warmth and energy of all the bodies passing them, blocking the sounds of the land. Only a delicate looking elleth, dressed in green and grey with chestnut hair and honey colored eyes, stayed next to her commander, posture at ease. Legolas nodded in respect towards Glorfindel and Elrond’s sons, but said nothing, returning their downward stare from their horses. His silence felt awkward and cold.

To remedy their unequal position, Glorfindel dismounted to see eye to eye and the twins followed his example. “Mae Govannen, Legolas Thranduilion. Your presence here is most welcome.” 

Legolas stared at him with intelligent eyes, the blue in them darkening with the falling dusk. “I thank you. Lord Glorfindel. Lord Elladan. Lord Elrohir.” He inclined his head towards them in respect and recognition, then gestured towards his companion. “This is Salihn, my second voice and keeper of my life. Lord Glorfindel, it has been many centuries since I saw you last.”

Glorfindel, wondering about the strange expression he used to describe his second-in-command, smiled faintly. “I think you pulled my hair last time and secretly put berries on my chair ruining my best tunic.” 

Legolas returned his smile carefully. “I do not recall such a thing, my Lord. That would be most … imprudent.” 

Glorfindel grinned now, his white teeth showing. “It is good to see you, mellon nîn. It gives us hope, your father heeding Cirdan’s call.”

Legolas nodded in earnest, his tone of voice more official and less playful. “Indeed, King Thranduil has sent me to aid the Alliance. One more host travels in our wake and will arrive here shortly. We encountered some orcs on our way.” 

He noticed that Legolas had not acknowledged his family bond when speaking of the king. Glorfindel tucked this information away in his mind. 

A sudden movement on the horizon caught his attention and another host came flowing into vision. The stealth and fluidity of movement was amazing. Its commander seemed smaller than Legolas. Glorfindel’s sharp eyes locked with long dark hair that was for a moment caught by a gust of wind, sending the strands over his face. When the elf swept it backwards with a flick of his head, something in his mind clicked and with sudden shock he realised that Thranduil took no heed of his daughter's safety. Instead, he had sent her into battle. 

For it was Morwen, Princess of Eryn Galen, leading the host through the grasslands. Upon approach, he noticed that the Elfling he had taught Quenya and songs so many centuries ago, was long gone. He drank in her appearance. Hair almost black with warrior braids adorning her temples. Beneath a large green cloak, he could discern her lean frame clad in a tight leather tunic that left her arms bare. She wore leather bracers with intricate designs, identical to Legolas’ he realised. Her legs were clad in tight dark green trousers, her feet in soft shoes. Armed to the teeth, she carried a sword and two daggers on each hip, a longbow and quiver with arrows on her back, a small shield beneath it. A large gash ran over her shoulder towards her biceps, blood trickling down. A bruise marred her cheek. 

When she came closer, Glorfindel was taken aback by her striking blue eyes that reminded him of Oropher and Thranduil. Cold icy blue, reflecting an invisible light and piercing anything in her path with sharp black pupils. Her dark hair made the color stand out all the more and Glorfindel noticed he was staring. Underneath her rough warrior look and wounds, there was no doubt that she was an exquisite beauty. Glorfindel wondered idly if her temper was unchanged. 

Not used to seeing her thus, he felt at a loss how to address her. The smaller jests he made with her brother seemed out of place. He licked his dry lips. 

But she ignored the Imladris ambassadors pointedly, marching straight towards Legolas, sinking down to one knee before him, her right arm leaning on her risen knee, head bent, giving report in quick elvish. Their speech Glorfindel recognized to be the dialect of the forest. He was familiar with it, but to discern Silvan or Sindar was hard for they talked too fast and soft for him to follow. 

A large red haired elf followed suit but stood at a distance. When Legolas dismissed her, she stood, speaking clipped words to the redhead. Her orders were carried towards the host and spread like quicksilver, and soon the mass moved in the direction of Imladris. 

Satisfied, she turned towards Glorfindel, standing next to Legolas. So she answers to her brother in rank. Interesting. 

He felt his mouth getting dry again, unable to speak, but Legolas beat him to it. “This is Morwen, captain of my Second Division.” 

Again no reference to their family bond, Glorfindel thought. “Mae Govannen, Morwen, Princess of Eryn Galen. You are most welcome.” 

She nodded at him but was silent while her sharp eyes assessed him. She remembered him of old, that golden hair was not easy to forget. So different from her brother’s and father’s. Sunkissed instead of their cold silver. Sunkissed .... it felt so right to call him that for that was the feel of all her childhood memories of him. His warm smile, his patience, his gentle voice, his funny jokes, all engulfed in warm sunlight, a matching golden warm fëa, with a hint of cornflower eyes. He had taught her Quenya and had sung songs with her. She remembered. 

But he seemed different here. Tall, cold and arrogant he seemed, welcoming her in such a formal manner. He was every inch the Ñoldor Lord that her father claimed he was. She sighed, her childhood memories held no value here. It was not the place nor the time for nostalgia, nor politeness as far as she was concerned. She had a job to do here, it was all that mattered. So she stared at him, straightening her back. 

“No titles here, Lord Glorfindel. I am judged by my skills on the battlefield, not my rank at court,” she scrutinized him carefully. His long golden hair was hanging loose. The arrogance! It was an open invitation for your enemy to grab your hair and end you quickly. If he was her subordinate she would have punished him. 

Distracted, she noticed the heaviness of his golden strands that seemed to make it immune to the wind. Her fingers remembered what they felt like, liquid gold, warm and glowing. His cornflower blue eyes were focussed on her but held no emotion. His features were fair and finely chiseled, subtle lines around his eyes and mouth seemed to enhance his striking beauty instead of making him look old. But she knew him to be old, older than her father, yet he seemed ageless to her. Sunkissed… 

“Forgive me, it was not my intent to be discourteous. What do you wish to be called?”

“Just Captain, or use my name. I trust you have not forgotten?” She could be the adult here.

“Indeed, I have not.” 

She nodded, but noticed that he did not speak her name. 

She pointed at the large red haired Elf that had returned to her side. “This is Galan, he is my second voice and the keeper of my life.” 

He is my second voice and the keeper of my life? Glorfindel inclined his head towards the Elf, who returned the gesture in silence. Just like Legolas’, her words held the feel of a formal ritual expression. It added up to Glorfindel’s knowledge of the Silvan culture that he knew to be harsh. Most Silvan Elves were warriors, death was always near in the forest. The level of trust was thus important, that it became part of the titles within army rank. 

“Do you require anything?” His eyes travelled towards her injury in a silent hint. 

“We don’t need anything from you.” A slight haughtiness crept into her voice. It did not go unnoticed to Glorfindel. 

Legolas said softly. “Watch your tongue, Captain.” 

To Glorfindel’s surprise she bowed her head. “Yes, commander.” 

Legolas turned to Glorfindel with a slight frown. “Forgive me, My Lord. Thank you for inquiring after our needs. Our scouts have seen that the valley of Imladris has trees, we will be happy to make camp there. Do we have your permission to hunt a little in these lands? We will take no more than is needed.” 

Glorfindel saw the twins exchange looks, it was obvious that the scouts had gone unnoticed through their perimeters. That was a remarkable feat in itself. The idea to have their skillset at the ready in the upcoming battle seemed to peak the twins’ interest immediately. Glorfindel sighed. They would not rest until they sought the young prince out to interrogate him. He wondered how Legolas would handle their attention, for they could be quite intense. 

While the dark around them fell faster, he pulled his mantle tighter. “You are welcome to hunt. Let us travel back, night is upon us.” 

He gave Morwen one last look. She stared at him with glowing unfriendly eyes. Glorfindel sighed. It was not the best of beginnings. 

A/N:

1\. [I'll say this again!] This story is a collaborative effort with the awesome Ruiniel. This is how it goes: we both use the same outline of events, main canon characters, and OC. We follow the same plotline, but our stories will each have a different direction and, ultimately, ending. Just thought it would be a fun project to see where we each go with the same story. Be sure to follow that version too, if interested to join our ride! The twin story to this is: 'Amarth - Downfall' by Ruiniel.

2\. While some names in this fanfiction are invented, most Quenya and/or Sindarin proper names/words/phrases are drawn from realelvish dot net. Great and comprehensive resource.  
"Amarth" = Fate (Sindarin)  
"Morwen" = Dark Maiden (Sindarin)

3\. AU elements abound, but I'll try to call out deviations from canon where relevant. For example: Mirkwood sending help to join the battle of Fornost is AU, but a prerequisite for this story to exist.

4\. This will be a twisted AU take on perfect, flawless Glorfindel. But ain't perfection better scarred?

5\. Eryn Galen refers to the kingdom of Northern Mirkwood ruled by Thranduil.

6\. LACE compliant? Yes.

7\. Much angst? Yes.

8\. And last but not least, only once mentioned in this chapter and good for all the rest of them ... DISCLAIMER: This fan fiction is intended for personal, non-commercial use only. No copyright infringement is intended.


	2. Feast of War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is a collaborative effort with the awesome Ruiniel. This is how it goes: we both use the same outline of events, main canon characters, and OC. We follow the same plotline, but our stories will each have a different direction and, ultimately, ending. Just thought it would be a fun project to see where we each go with the same story. Be sure to follow that version too, if interested to join our ride! 
> 
> The twin story to this is: 'Amarth - Downfall' by Ruiniel.

Lord Glorfindel of Imladris, former Lord of the House of the Golden Flower and Twice Born Balrog Slayer cursed within the impending darkness. To find 800 wood elves in the valley of Imladris should not be such a difficult task. It seemed he was lacking skill compared to their guest forest dwellers, who seemingly merged with the growing shadows in between the trees like spirits. Without doubt, they were observing his progress from the moment he set foot underneath the green eaves, now drained of their color by the night at hand. He strode through the dry fallen leaves; stealth was useless here, nor was it wanted, for he was in dire need to discover them or to be discovered. Were they toying with him? Teasing the Ñoldor Lord that he was. He raked his hand through his heavy hair with a deep sigh, aware of how the Eryn Galen elves perceived his kind. 

But for all his High Ñoldor nobility and renowned powers, if his scouting skills would not suffice, it was not beneath him to cheat a little. He eased the control over his fëa slightly, reaching into his surroundings. And ill prepared he proved to be once more, when a familiar fëa above him seemed to recognize him instantly, invading his’ with hostility. Startled by the swift intrusion, he hardly recognized it, its light hidden within a haze. It was still that wild young spirit that he remembered from the green woods; kind but rash, soothing but invigorating, like a fresh spring wind. And for a moment he relished the feeling, riding the memories that took him back to a much sweeter past, so far away from his current reality. 

But while his fëa reached for the other’s, he collided with aggression and curiosity underneath it. She sheared through him like a silver edged knife and the rawness of it shocked him. Bloodlust was there, floating atop sacrifice, pain and suffering, all longer in weight and duration than the handful of centuries she had been walking underneath the stars of Arda. Her light seemed umbrageous then. And he realised that his memories did not harmonize with her present person. He withdrew his fëa softly, shaking away the memory of the small girl that he once knew. 

She dropped silently from the leaves, straightening slowly, staring him down, fighting his height with her eyes. Playing down what had just aspired, her countenance showed no sign that she had felt his innocent probing, nor her invasion of his. Only suspicious dark eyes. Scrutinizing. “What do you want?” she stated bluntly. 

Could it be she had not felt it? Had her invasion been a reflex on instinct? “Captain Morwen.” he inclined his head towards her. If she was keen on ignoring their shared past, two could play that game. “Bring me to your commander. I have some practical matters to discuss.” 

Xxxxxxxxxxx

Morwen walked silently through the forest not sure what to say to the tall Ñoldor Lord beside her. He radiated stiff unease, his demeanour haughty and distant. His presence was overwhelming, just like the moment before, when she had watched his approach from the eaves. His fëa had reached out to her. His golden light, warm and welcoming, had enveloped her in the setting darkness. He seemed to radiate light, if ever so slightly. Even now, while she secretly stared out of the corner of her eyes, she saw it still. A soft glow, gone when you looked at it directly, like faint starlight, yet very real. 

She had trouble connecting her memories of him with the Ñoldor Lord falling into step beside her. He was forever connected with the day her mother was brought home, her body dead to the world, her fëa already in the Halls of Mandos. She was an elfling and her memory was fragmented. Only powerlessness dominated. It was an inevitable, unmovable presence, this death. And in horror she had fled the palaces in search of her friend Twig. 

It was an easy friendship with the giant red deer stag. The animal had shown itself first when she was born, as was the tradition for the royal family. And the stag had not ceased to seek her out whenever she ventured into the forests. She remembered her fingers sinking into his fur, feeling his comforting warmth. And only then the tears had come. She must have pulled herself on the animal, because she remembered a wild run with dazzling speed towards the very heart of Eryn Galen. Flashes of the fur between her fingers, the warmth and power of the animal between her legs, the strong potent smell of deer, the wind in her face. A safe haven.

It was Glorfindel who had found her on the brink of night, her face pressed against the warm flanks of Twig, exhausted and crying. He touched her hair, whispering words of comfort and she had stared at him in wonder. Sunkissed, was all that came to mind. 

He brought her home on his steed, and her hands had found his golden hair. And she let the heavy strands spill through her fingers like water. All she remembered was the slow cadence of the horse, the nervous presence of Twig in the thicket trailing them, the sweet smell of sun on pine trees and the curtain of gold enveloping her. A temporary barrier for the wrath of her father, that was sure to come. 

And now the same golden hair shimmered beside her, belonging to one of the mighty of the Firstborn. That her hands had once touched his hair seemed impossible now. The kind elf that comforted a crying child in his arms had vanished. 

She had anticipated his presence here, after all, he was no idle book scholar, he was the infamous commander of the Imladris forces. But she did not anticipate the fast overtaking of her memories by this grim reality, nor his overwhelming presence. 

His voice solemn: “Have you all settled in yet, Captain?” 

She nodded, realizing too late that it was too dark for him to see. He already turned towards her in anticipation. 

“You will soon see for yourself.” Curt and clipped. She mentally slapped herself. Why? 

And she had not spoken the last word or the forest floor was subtly sloping upwards. Trees grew sparser, and higher, enabling their sight to lengthen. Suddenly it appeared they entered a large hall upholstered in a myriad of greens. It was roofed by the bough of the trees that surrounded it. A small fire was lit, elves were sitting or standing in groups, softly whispering in the twilight. The fire smoke curled upwards through a large opening in the canopy. Through the smoke Glorfindel could distinguish Remmirath, the Netted Stars in the sky, as well as red Borgil. And behind the treeline, he felt Menelvagor, the Swordsman in the sky with his shining belt. 

Morwen walked in silence towards the fire, where Glorfindel, upon approach, recognized her brother Legolas. 

After their greeting, Glorfindel let his eyes wander, stating: “I came to inquire if you are in need of anything. Your host is anxious to see you settled in.” 

Legolas smiled curtly. “Fear not, the trees’ intent was compelling about this area. A restoring quality seems to emanate from this place, it is very soothing. It eases our bodies and minds, for our warriors were weary.” 

Glorfindel nodded. “I will instruct our kitchens to prepare extra food for your people. I fear it will take some time to adjust to your numbers.”

Legolas frowned at that, then inclined his head in a silent thank you. “I fear we are imposing on our hosts’ hospitality. I will order our shot game to be brought to the kitchens at once. My men will aid the kitchens in any way they can. I can imagine it is not an easy feat to have an additional 800 mouths to feed.” 

“That is most thoughtful of you, Prince Legolas. I hope you did not bring berries?” 

A small jest. A reference to their shared memories. Legolas grinned. Then he flashed a hand signal to a group of his men, standing to the edge of the clearing. They retreated backwards, until they disappeared like smoke in the darkness. 

“Tomorrow you will meet your host and enjoy the festivities of the first day of the Enderi. There will be food, music and dance. You are very welcome in our halls.” 

Morwen, who had remained silent during their display, started. “Music and dance?” Disdain pushed through her voice. 

Legolas’ eyes told her to hold her tongue, but Glorfindel noticed how she struggled to do so. 

“You do not make music, nor dance in the Halls of Thranduil Elvenking?” He smiled faintly at her. 

“I am a warrior.” As if those words alone conveyed her meaning. 

Glordindel stared at her thoughtfully. “Well. There is also the traditional hunt on the second day of the Enderi. Would that suit your tastes better, Captain Morwen?” 

Her eyes lit up. “That. I can do.” 

Glorfindel noticed Legolas rolling his eyes from the corner of his vision. 

He stared at her thoughtfully. Why was she acting like a petulant child, complaining about decorum? She seemed tense like a rigid reed. He tucked the information carefully away in his mind. 

“I will send someone to bring you to Master Elrond tomorrow morning. For now, rest, warriors of Eryn Galen. Nothing passes this valley but wind and the light of the stars. Be at peace”. And with these words, Lord Glorfindel took his leave. 

Morwen escorted him back towards the border of the clearing, but stopped when he stepped into the treeline. She stared at his retreating back. When the last shimmer of gold disappeared in between the trees a rich voice above her drawled: “And there goes the golden hero of the Ñoldor. Tell me, Captain, why are you staring?” 

While she gazed upwards, he fell silent as a cat towards the ground where he slowly rose to meet her eye. The darkness had withdrawn the red of his hair, his eyes reflected the fire behind her, making them glint as if from a cat. But instead of laughter, his snide remark and lopsided grin, Galan’s trademarks, sparked only irritation. 

She turned around lashing out with her arm, the movement hitting home. A cough behind her. “Stop your banter, Galan. I know him of old, that is all.” 

His laughter pearled behind her. “Is that how you treat all your acquaintances?” 

He was right of course, he knew her best. But she refused to give in. She could get him back. Where it would hurt. She stopped walking and turned her head towards him. “Why Galan, are you jealous?” 

His grin disappeared, leaving his gaze dark and menacing for a fleeting moment. It was gone before she knew it, quickly replaced by his ever present smirk. “Ah, Captain! You know that I want you for myself!” 

She watched him, all banter pushed aside, assessing him for a moment. He stared back as if time stood still. She saw it there, deep in his eyes. The naked truth and his most raw desire. And she felt ashamed suddenly that she had provoked him so. For she could never give him what he wished for. 

Silently she turned and walked towards the warm fire, Galan’s burning gaze leaving her with a cold shiver.

Xxxxxxxxxxx

She dreaded diplomatic meetings, but one could not survive King Thranduil’s court without learning the accessory skills required for those of royal blood. And she was taught by the very best. Thranduil’s competence in politics, communication styles, rhetorics and sheer manipulation was legendary in Eryn Galen. He ruled his people with a deceptively offhand manner, but nothing passed unseen in his court and he mastered control over all his subjects. 

Legolas mimicked his father’s fluent skills on diplomatic journeys. From the outside he appeared to be seeking harmony instead of polarity, but she knew her brother never derailed from his target. So despite his evasion of conflicts, he won them all.

Diplomacy came not so easy for Morwen. Her intellect and skill rivalled that of her brother, solutions often more daring and creative, but her speech followed the line of her arrows: straight and to the point. A trait born out of impatience, it saved her time, but caused conflict just as often. 

And here, far from her home and her father’s court, she was well aware of the difference in social status. Or at least, how the Ñoldor perceived their status, she thought bitterly. They needed to end the threat of Angmar, it was their shared purpose. But how to reach that goal was another matter altogether. She was glad Legolas was here, a better and more patient diplomat and a gifted tactician. 

They had been summoned by a serious looking elf with a soft voice, who led them over a myriad of terraces and stairs until they stopped before an intricately carved wooden door. The scenes were floral mostly, with hints of abstract motives. She was amazed by Imladris, a Ñoldor stronghold, so very different from her home. These forests felt so innocent compared to the spider-invested heartlands of her home. Their own dwellings were enclosed within large caves, unyielding, a safehold and prison in one. Imladris felt open and free. All buildings were situated on the slopes of the valley, each and everyone facing a terrace that looked out over the vale. She had not seen one closed door nor window on her way up, and the wind, air and smells of the night could roam free within the dwellings of Imladris. There was a sense of unbridled freedom here. But they live in the eye of the storm, the power of Elrond is keeping these lands safe. They know not of the hardships my people deal with every day. 

As if on an invisible cue, the only closed doors in the vicinity, opened slowly, showing a large room with wooden carved beams and a large burning hearth at the back. Several dark haired elves stood bent over a large table covered in maps. 

A hush fell upon their entrance, all eyes fixed on the Prince and Princess of Eryn Galen and their second-in-commands. With a soft exclamation sound, one of the elves walked with confident strides towards them, his power pushing against her like a soft curtain. Within a timeless face, his eyes held wisdom and his dark hair was held by a silver band, his air serious but gentle. 

He neighed his head. “Amatúlie, Cundu Legolas, Aranel Morwen. Elen síla lúmenn’ omentielvo.*” Morwen frowned. Why would he address us in Quenya, such a useless thing, lest it was to prove his superiority.  
*Blessed your arrival, Prince Legolas, Princess Morwen. A star shines upon the hour of our meeting. 

Her brother seemed unperturbed by it, answering politely in the same tongue. “Hantanyel, saesa omentien lle..*” Elrond nodded, his eyes betraying mirth.  
*I thank thee. It is a pleasure to meet you.

“I trust you are well situated within the valley? Please let me know if you are in need of anything.” 

Legolas gave a curt nod. “We are honored to stay in the valley, my Lord Elrond. The trees give us much joy, their voices are peaceful. On behalf of my men, Hantanyel*.”  
*I thank you.

Elrond nodded, his mirth disappearing, beckoning them farther inside. When somebody closed the doors behind them, the air inside enveloped her like a warm blanket, penetrating her clothes that were cool and moist from the night autumn air. 

“Your arrival here is like the tide coming in. Imladris will ride this tide in unison towards battle. These are dark times indeed. I wish to invite you to our daily council meetings, to discuss the matters of war.” 

He introduced Galan and Salihn to the party present, trusting the formal greeting of the prince and princess at the doorstep was heard by all others. Then, he introduced the elves of his own household present. A dark haired elf with a calm demeanor and laughing eyes was called Lord Erestor. Next to him, tall, with brown hair braided in warrior style and dressed in leather was Lord Tessarion, Captain of the Imladris Guard. The siblings, Elladan and Elrohir were present, dressed in dark blue and black, a silver brooch of a running wolf on the cuff of their necks, each wearing a finely wrought silver headband, complementing the silver in their grey eyes. 

More elves were introduced, and soon it was too much to take in and she forgot their names quickly. Her eyes wandered towards a quiet shape at the end of the table sitting in a beautifully carved wooden chair set upon a small dais. Her face was exquisite, fine lines emphasized her beauty, her silver grey hair cascaded over her back, sparkling in the firelight, complimenting her eyes. Her gaze was inquisitive but open, and Morwen could not shake off the feeling of being exposed. 

This must be Celebrían, Elrond’s life’s companion and mother to Elladan and Elrohir. Her presence seemed out of place for Morwen who had been motherless for centuries now, growing up in a world of men. Her presence here proved that Elrond valued her intellect and strategic insight. Idly, she wondered about the third sibling, Arwen, the Evenstar and if she normally attended battle councils. Celebrían seemed to have caught her gaze and Morwen felt herself drawn in those silvery knowing eyes. After some moments, a small smile crept around the corners of Celebrían’s mouth and with a small inclination of her silver head, she released her gaze and turned towards the maps. 

When all polite introductions were done, the attention was drawn towards the maps on the table. “Will you command the Imladris forces, my Lord?” Legolas stared at the maps hungrily while waiting for the answer. 

“Nay, it is not I who will march against the Witch-King, but Lord Glorfindel. I will safeguard the realm.” 

Her eyes were caught involuntary by the figure standing directly in front of the hearth. His hair held a glowing gold halo of light, caused by the shine of the fire behind him. It seemed as if he was made of sunlight, seeping from within, his skin, hair and eyes radiating light. For a moment time seemed to stop while she drank him in, until Galan shoved an elbow in her ribs to make her wake from her stupor. 

“Tired, my captain?” he grinned at her, his deep green eyes teasing, the hurt of the previous night forgotten. He whispered softly in her ear. “Let us see if the Ñoldor are as good at tactics as our Commander.” It was her turn to poke him in the ribs with her elbow for the insolence of whispering in present company. But none of the others seemed to notice. 

But no strategies were discussed as of yet. The conversations were less exciting or noble and more banal, discussing the transport of food, clothing and medicine, horses and weaponry. And while these practicalities were discussed within little groups, threads of conversations picked up, maps were being studied. With everyone thus occupied, the situation gave the Eryn Galen guests time to catch up with the latest intelligence on their enemies’ movements. 

Legolas nodded with his head towards the other end of the large table: “Let us catch up with our allies then. Salihn and I will start there with the older maps, maybe we find some forgotten pathways. It would be convenient, for stealth is our strength in this battle. You check the newest maps with Galan, Captain. Let me know if we are behind or up to date with the current facts.” She nodded at him in irritation. He always pulled rank in the company of strangers, while they had entered the council on equal terms as royal siblings. But her irritation did not last long, for she was used to him formalizing their family ties in company, and she often did the same. 

The maps on their side of the table seemed also a collection of ancient ones, tattered at corners, repaired many times, showing the land as it was centuries ago. New ones mingled sparsely in between, the latest information complementing ancient knowledge. She felt young for a moment, surrounded by Elves that had lived to see the land change in such a significant way. But her interest peaked and soon these sentiments disappeared from her thoughts confronted with such a valuable source of knowledge. 

The most recent map was one that marked the growing spread of evil in Arnor. Every new gained territory was marked in different coloring. Her eyes followed the lines and growth with increasing distress and the warmth of the hearth became suffocating all of a sudden. The urgency of their journey, her presence here, became painfully clear by these simple and rational facts and figures. But her eyes saw beyond these calculations and she could suddenly feel all suffering and death that must lie beneath the ink. She swayed for a small moment, Galan’s hand reached for her instantly, his support ever present. She gazed at her brother. If he noticed her distress he did not show it, his face set while he studied the maps on his side of the table. 

She regained her composure, distracting herself by scanning other maps. Galan, his eyes still trained on his captain, whispered in the Greenwood Silvan dialect: “It is far worse than the news that reached our lands… The need is dire indeed. Our King has made good judgement by sending us here.” She nodded, her eyes trailing further still, following the winding path of the great river Lune. The powerful waters kept the evil contained for now, but soon it would overflow its path and spread to other lands. It was this river that marked the start of battle. Cross the river and there was no turning back. 

But she had to look beyond that frightening moment in time. And her eyes fell on the large plains between Nenuial and Fornost. There was no doubt in her mind that the battle would end there, on those plains. A cold shiver reached from her head to her tailbone. A death in the open field with no trees, exposed to wind and biting cold. 

Young and inexperienced as she was, she felt herself fall short suddenly. The small skirmishes with the enemy at the borders of her home seemed insignificant all of a sudden. Death was ever present in the Greenwood, but the purpose of it was close to her heart. She had no desire to die here for the people of foreign lands. The horror of dying under a strange sky that was not her own made her throat squeeze shut. Trying to regain control over her heartbeat and shivering, she looked at Galan for support. He stared at her, his green eyes soft, seemingly understanding. He grasped her hand for a moment, squeezing it softly, offering her a smirk. Looking up and staring at him, her childhood friend, her trusted second in command, she knew. She knew with utmost certainty that she might fear death, but she would not shun it. She would die if it meant the safety of her people. 

She picked up her trail of thought again, her eyes following the Lune. She was searching for a stealthier approach. How to reach these plains unseen? But there in the south of the lands, hilltops loomed. The hills of Evendim could give cover for the larger part of their battle forces. To have her warriors travel through the hills they could do what they did best. Go unnoticed and bring surprise into this grand battle. 

Her eyes swallowed the drawings of the maps eagerly, memorizing all paths through the labyrinth of hilltops and valleys. And in her excitement, for one unguarded moment, she spoke out loud to Galan in Silvan. She had forgotten the ones around her for a moment, forgotten the insult of speaking another language in company on purpose. 

“We could use the cover of the hills here, Galan. Do you see? Stealth is our strength, not open battle. We can tip the balance here, by invading Arnor unnoticed.” 

She underestimated the reach of her voice and suddenly a stern but soft voice from her right sounded. “Your thinking is too rash, young Captain. A warrior needs to be well rested and fed before he can deliver battle of any sort. You should focus on the practical considerations first. They are more urgent than the fight itself.” 

Her gaze clashed with hard cornflower blue eyes. His features seemed set and his voice sounded unyielding. Had it been her brother, she would have shrugged, but coming from him. Here. In this company. It felt as if he had slapped her in the face. She knew he spoke her tongue. Why had she forgotten? In the corner of her eye, she saw Legolas looking up, irritation clear in his eyes. She knew what was coming. 

His voice grinded over the table, making her shiver and flush. “Captain, from now on, refrain from sharing your thoughts lest you have my permission.” 

Gritting her teeth she inclined her head in acknowledgement, her chin pushed forward in defiance. A hush fell over the company at the blatant slight she was given by her sibling. And she felt the unwanted attention burning. 

Glorfindel seemed to consider Legolas’ order for a moment. But all too quickly he focussed on one of the maps once again, as if he did not know how to position himself and soon the others followed. One gaze did not look away. Lady Celebrian watched her with calmth and patience, smiling softly at her. 

xxxxxxxxxxxx

The Hall of Fire was filled to the brim with song and music, its intricately woven melodies and energy whirling around her. And as if in the eye of a storm, a slow dance was performed in the centre of it. The splendor of the feast had been breathtaking this evening and she marvelled at the deeply rooted differences within the Ñoldor culture compared to her own. But there were many similarities to be witnessed as well, the rituals of her home seemed here a bleak reminiscent of the oft Ñoldor origin. But not even the heart of Imladris could make her feel at peace, she still felt irritated and restless. Glorfindel had told her off like a child, her brother adding to the insult. 

The latter stood next to her now, leaning against a wooden pillar, his poise relaxed, like a cat in the sun. He wore a dark tunic with a high collar that made the silverblond of his hair stand out like a beacon. The neckline showed a pale hint of a strong chest, the edges adorned with silver linings. Dark pants fit into brown boots made of supple deer leather. She could feel his gaze upon her. He silently handed her a strip of dried meat, his blue eyes calmly assessing her. 

“He seems unchanged, do you not think so, sister?” His words soft, no hint of the earlier slight lingered in his voice. 

She burst out. “He is not the same at all! He acts like an arrogant Ñoldor, just like father told us. He has not once acknowledged me in a civil manner, only to slight me. He did not speak my name at our first greeting. How can there be trust when he betrays our mutual memories!” 

Legolas frowned at her waterfall of complaints. “If you had taken the time to assess the situation before jumping to conclusions; he did recognize us. He remembered my name and yours. It was you who was uncivil towards him. And in any case, you should not judge him on a mere first meeting.” 

“It is not a mere meeting that has convinced me of his arrogance. He reprimanded me as if I were the child he once knew, at the council.” She stared at him then, adding darkly, “As did you…”

“You were asking for a reprimand. I see no fault in his ways. He is one of the powerful Lords in this realm. What is he to do when allies whisper in their private tongue in his presence? It was badly done, Morwen. You know this.” 

He bit into a strip of meat, pulling at it with force until it snapped, his white teeth catching the light of the fire for a moment. He proceeded, more thoughtfully. “Still, there is no need to keep such a distant decorum. You were quite close to him once. Or do you feel hurt, sister?” 

She stared at him, eyes glowing. “Not hurt, irritated. Did you see his unbraided hair out in the field? Lord Elrond should punish him for this misconduct. A commander cannot be such a liability in battle.” 

Legolas stared at her. “Liability in battle? Have you lost your mind, Morwen? He is the strongest and most powerful Lord among the elves here present. Who are you, sister, to judge him!” 

She opened and closed her mouth again. He had a point. Irritatingly so. But her pride prevented her from giving in. “If he served in my host, I would have punished him. He should set a better example for his men!” 

Legolas shrugged, staring towards the dance, that was now slowly speeding up. “I do not understand why you should focus on his hair, lest you cherish it as you did when you were an elfling. He is neither Silvan nor Sindar, nor can you bend him to your will like Galan or your other men.” 

She grinded her teeth in frustration, arms crossed before her. She felt his eyes on her again. “And if it bothers you so, dear sister, why don’t you seek him out and confront him? After all, that is what you do best.”

Staring at him incredulously, she watched him walk away towards Salihn, who sat alone on a small stool, her slender frame leaning against one of the mighty wooden pillars that held the ceiling, her hair glistening in the light of the fire. She watched her brother bending down, a calloused hand softly grasping her shoulder to whisper something in her ear that made her smile. And suddenly Morwen felt alone. 

xxxxxxxxxx

The night was filled with the smell of woodfire. The new moon, barely visible in the dark sky, skimmed the tree line on the other side of the vale. Restless sparks flying high up from invisible fires lower down the terraces, mingled with the slow glitter of pale stars. Lord Glorfindel stood at the edge of a large terrace that lay centered between the dining halls and the Hall of Fire and overlooked Imladris in its valley. The doors of the Hall of Fire stood wide open, orange light falling onto the terrace, music from the very heart of Imladris floated into the night. 

Tonight was the first night of the Enderi, the three days transition from the season of iavas, autumn, to firith, the fading. It was a cherished time for the Ñoldor, Sindar and Silvan alike for the transition between the seasons held a deep meaning. An echo of an ancient past and lost ways. And most important, a reminder that the cycle of life turned and was as endless as the elves themselves. 

Soon the orange glow in the Hall of Fire would be extinguished. And while all knew a new fire would be lit on the second day that would be kept alive for another year, a deep sense of mourning grasped all that were present, for it meant Imadris’s light was quenched, its very heart weakened and vulnerable. Only hope was left then, hope for the return of light. A reminder of life and death, the eternal dance. 

She saw him there, leaning over the stone balustrade. His gold hair was reflecting the light that fell through the open doors. With rustling skirts, she strode towards him, music followed in her wake like bubbling water. His body seemed relaxed, bordering on slumping, a glass of red wine dangled from one of his slender hands. 

She stopped next to him, leaning close by his side, staring at the darkness around them. He watched her curiously, she could see him facing her from the corner of her eyes. But before he could speak she beat him to it.

“You think me a child still.” She accused. 

Glorfindel blinked owlishly. “I beg your pardon?” 

“You think me a child still, and act accordingly. I will not be chided within a war council, Lord Glorfindel. I have nothing to prove to you, or anyone present there. You will treat me with respect!” 

He stared at her dumbfounded. After all her silent glares, and scathing eye contact, this was what she thought of him? 

“Is that truly what you think?” 

“Prove me wrong, then.” She had not looked at him still. 

For a moment he was at a loss what to say. Was she right? 

“Princess Morwen, I would never take the liberty of treating you with something other than respect. Forgive me if I gave you that impression. It was certainly not my meaning.” 

She gazed at him then. Concern shone in his blue eyes, and something else, curiosity. The lines around his eyes seemed invisible in the growing darkness, but she knew they were there, emphasizing his beauty. She marvelled at his features, he radiated nobility, as if he were an art piece wrought by the finest artists the Elven realms had brought forth. But she knew of the playfulness hiding underneath his pristine looks. She knew his fingers could playfully dig in your side until you screamed for him to stop. 

A sudden revelation struck her then, for she did not know who this handsome elf was. A teacher and caretaker of children, but here, he seemed to be so much more. She had yet to experience him in all his facets: diplomat, warlord and warrior, the re-embodied Lord of the House of the Golden Flower and Balrog slayer. And yet, underneath all that, he is just an elf. Like me. 

And just like that her reluctance melted away and a path was cleared to a reacquaintance, without prejudice or distrust. At least from my side. She thought wryly. 

Behind him, Glorfindel could feel the fire dying. And like a shockwave, silence fell over the valley. Non talked nor laughed. Maybe for the elves present, especially their guests, it would seem that the impending war would give this tradition a more severe impact. Or maybe it would seem that the fire really held that much power, that its extinguishing could be felt throughout the valley. But Glorfindel was one of the mighty of the First Age and he was not fooled. He felt the power of Vilya underneath the superficial rituals, sweeping through the valley. It was Elrond giving this moment extra weight. The magic of Imladris.

He heard Morwen gasp next to him. She had never experienced such a powerplay and he noticed tears shimmering in her eyes, until one of them fell, tracing her cheek like quicksilver. She trembled. He watched her warily, but knew not to comfort her. She would lash out to him he was sure of it. 

When she regained her demeanor, she turned towards him and said slowly. “Forgive me, for suspecting ill intent, Lord Glorfindel. I have been impolite as well. It must have been the shock of meeting my old mentor and caretaker.”

There. She acknowledged their shared story. Glorfindel nodded. “I understand, Captain. Let us start anew then?” 

He noticed a small smile creeping upon Morwen’s features. It enhanced her beauty, he thought. “Tomorrow?” 

“Tomorrow.” And with that she walked away, her slender figure swallowed by the darkness around them.


End file.
